Suffering and Joy

If we grow up in a secure household in America we learn – and may come to believe – that everyone has the right to pursue happiness. Although we are not told this explicitly, in America, in our consumerist culture, this most certainly means a right to the external pursuit of happiness. It is highly debatable whether in actuality all Americans share this right but I won’t get into that. The thought that captivates me is the simple idea of being free to pursue happiness. It is beautiful. Happiness as a sustained state of being in the world – as opposed to on a remote tropical island in a four star facility but rather in life around people, with all the pain, despair, and suffering that involves – must be an internal state. This pursuit of internal happiness is truly open to everyone but the path towards its achievement is far more difficult. I am beginning to think that the only people who achieve internal happiness are highly evolved spiritual beings. For the rest of us here on this planet, so distant from God, we are left mostly to our own devices to increase our compassion, learn grace, and find joy. Our relationships with ourselves are often tragically flawed not to mention our relationships with each other. We create pain, witness pain, experience loss, and misplace priorities. Living in Malawi and working in the labor ward there over the past few years has had a profound impact on my spirit. I am still unsure of how to characterize this impact; at the moment perhaps I can say it has left me with a greater sense of surrender. I have seen much inequality and cruelty; I have gained no understanding its purpose. We might grandly hypothesize that spiritual evolution requires suffering but when so much suffering is merely a degradation of life, the conclusion that most readily arises is that we as a global community are responsible for its unnecessary existence. I am exhausted, I feel a desire to rest but an inability to turn away. Certainly, I have deepened my respect for those who walk through life with their eyes open and radiate joy. I wrote before that I want to find more joy in life and I am renewing that intention.

Home?

We are now in Kumasi. Initially we stayed at the home of one of the lecturers from KNUST who has been a friend to Clement. He took us around to see the housing options and we made a decision. Of course before we made the decision I had a few hours of panic. Flats are difficult to find around the University as most homes and buildings have been converted into hostels, which are essentially private dorms. We saw a very nice hostel within walking distance from the University and a lovely simple two bedroom apartment for the same price at a significant distance from campus. We chose the hostel. So, here I am 32, newly married and living in a dorm with my husband. We have a single room with an attached bathroom (which it seems we share with a family of small mice), we sleep in a single bed, share a “kitchen” - consisting of a sink and two burner hot plate - with four to six others, and wash our laundry in the shower. There is no common space inside, no garden outside; there is no place to sit with friends or breathing room when Clement and I need a few minutes apart. I keep asking myself, “How did I get here and what am I doing?” then I argue with myself for the underlying sense of entitlement. After each wave of panic Clement gives me the needed hug and reminds me that I am just going through culture shock and will adjust. I need to find a source for good chocolate and ice cream then I'm sure I will be able to live happily.

Arrival in Ghana

Clement and I have arrived in Ghana. Like so much of life, it was an adventure getting here - of course there was the necessary and sad bit of saying goodbye to good friends, moving out, selling our things, and packing. Then there was the unnecessary bit of DHL losing my passport when I shipped it with them to the Ghanaian High Commission in Harare, Zimbabwe to get a visa. They were very apologetic but the extra stress led to a few tears and a delay of a week. Finally we left Lilongwe on the 8th of February and, after a night in Addis Ababa, arrived in Accra in the afternoon of the 9th. During the trip as I considered what I was leaving behind and the unknown towards which I was headed, my excitement and anxiety seemed to counteract each other and left me feeling empty.

As soon as we passed through immigration in Accra we found Clement’s classmate Moses waiting for us at the baggage claim with a warm smile. He brought us home to his wife and two little boys. So here we are in their home with all our earthly possession in four bags. We have no home and little idea of what will come in the next days, weeks, months. I must consciously remind myself that beginnings are always difficult but they always pass. I remember my first days in Malawi at the Kapondas’ home filled with excitement but also loneliness and boredom. Now, here I am again in a similar predicament. This need to start life over again and again, to experience new countries and cultures, is at times a burdensome compulsion. However, I doubt this realization will prevent future reoccurrences. At least this time we are two and at least Clement survived culture shock and successfully made a few friends last semester.

Ghana is lot hotter than Malawi. The heat feels like Texas but Accra lacks the ubiquitous air conditioners present in nearly every home and shop in Austin. I don’t mind the heat. I much prefer this climate to the cold but Clement struggles with it. The streets are busier than Malawi; people move faster, are more assertive, more willing to express their opinions, and more likely to start a conversation. There is a wide variety of street food, of which I can only identify a handful, but I’m eager to taste it. In general the food is delicious and spicy but our encounters with vegetables have been minimal. I have only seen three green vegetables in the market – okra, a local green leafy vegetable, and lettuce and usually when they end up on your plate you must search for tiny flakes of green. Vendors flow up and down every street hurrying to make transactions through car and bus windows during pauses at intersections then swiftly jumping aside when the traffic movement resumes. Unlike Malawi the vendors here on the street and in the shops are mostly women and girls. I wonder about their education and their safety. The predominant local language is Twi (pronounced tree) but many people do speak English. Although there are very few faces which are obviously not African people don’t seem to take much notice of me and Clement. There are definitely fewer beautiful development aid vehicles cruising the streets than in Malawi - perhaps a sign of a more independent economy.

The most difficult part of moving is always the lack of friendship and this of course takes time. Wherever I walk small children shout oblonie (white person) and wave. One day as I was walking home with groceries in my arms I heard a small voice yell, "Can I help you?" followed by the patter of small feet. A group of young students in the school uniforms took my bags and escorted me home. Another day when Clement and I stopped to discuss directions on a street corner and a group of five little girls maybe 7 and 8 years old all came up to me and gave me hugs one by one, the last one planted a kiss on my belly. Not a bad welcome.

Cromwell

Cromwell has been living up north with his parents since shortly after his stroke. Over the past two years he managed to recover some of his strength but he was still walking with a notable limp. He came to our wedding in Mangochi and I saw him a couple weeks afterwards for a goodbye before our departure to Ghana. He was laughing as he recounted his experiences at our wedding, Cromwell does not laugh often and I was glad to leave with happy images of him fresh in my mind. Last night Cromwell's brother Jobson called to tell me Cromwell died on Friday and was buried on Monday. He had been watching football (the African Cup of Nations is going on in Ghana) when his heart started racing. An ambulance was called to transport him to the hospital. He died in route. He was 32.